Soulmates
by wayward-winchesterss
Summary: AU where whenever your soulmate is injured, you are too. And in turn, when one dies, so does the other. You are reincarnated over and over, forced to endure and find your soulmate again and again until you are finally happy. The perfect ending. Unfortunately, Castiel and Dean's souls haven't been dealt a good hand. They fall in love again and again, until fate grants them happiness
1. First

The first time Castiel died, he had only been 3. It was June – bright, sunny, and warm. His mother was sat in a lawn chair in the front lawn with a smile on her face, curled under the shade of a large oak tree as a forgotten book sat spread on her lap. She watched as her youngest boy followed his older brother around, playing knights and dragons or whatever it was. It had come without warning – Castiel was giggling at his older brother who was in the middle of declaring his love for the princess (their mother, apparently) when the boy paled. It happened too fast to notice. He crumpled to the ground without a sound, his bones snapping and his skin tearing. He hadn't even been interested in anyone before his soulmate ended his life in a single moment.

Castiel died again when he was 7, except this time they had more than an educated guess as to what had happened. Right field – the least active part of little league baseball. Castiel had gotten used to drifting off, maybe watching the clouds or a lazy bee the buzzed across the field. He never was any good at sports. No one would have guessed that his severe lack of talent and general dislike of sports would have ended his life – a straight shooter from a left hander that flew into right field faster than any normal little league hit. It sunk into his temple and sent him flying back. Now, you might be saying, there's no way an 8 year old can hit a ball hard enough to kill a kid. While this is true, a swarm of ants who immediately attack and defend any potential threat to their nest – which Castiel had the misfortune to fall in – can indeed kill a child if he is fatally allergic to them.

It's impossible to tell who died first in the next two cycles of life. In 1947, Castiel was born still. He was meant to save his parent's marriage, but because of his death the family fell apart and the mother was left alone in her sorrow. The father was convinced that it couldn't have been his son's soulmate, finding yet another excuse to blame her for something. That August he drank him and his ex-wife to death, suffocating her already dark world. In 1970, Castiel was found in his crib when he was only 8 months old. His mother sobbed at the fates for giving her child such a terrible hand in all of his lives – convinced his soul could never do any harm.

He lived again in his next life to be 17.

It's 2006. His first day of high school. The brick building looms mockingly above him as if it knows that not once in any of his lives has he ever been to high school. As his brother's car pulls away from the front of the school, bumping along the uneven road to the student parking lot, Castiel feels another dull pain in his arm. If one looked under the sleeves of his jacket – thank god it is never hot in this town – they'd see the red angry lines in the area of his inner elbow. They appear at random times, mostly in the worse he could think of. His mother told him that his soulmate was sad. Castiel didn't really understand why being sad meant wanting more pain. Maybe when he found them he'd ask.

They only started last year, when he was 13. He'd woken up feeling like his arm was on fire despite how wet and sticky he felt. He remembers clear as day stumbling across his room to the light, screaming in shock and fear when he saw that his arm, bed, and side were covered in blood. His father had scrambled in his room first with a baseball bat before scooping him up and carrying him to the bathroom. Pretty soon they realized all the blood had come from 3 deep cuts, all parallel on his arm. His mother, a pediatrician, said that he must have been bleeding for a while.

He'd gotten used to carrying a first aid kit with him wherever he went, which also gave him the excuse to carry his sketch pad around with it in a bag. He just wished his soulmate knew better than to harm themselves during school.

Head down, Castiel traversed through the crowded hallways. Some girl was talking about the bruise she had gotten, wondering aloud to her friend in amazement at the thought her soulmate was a fighter. That was hot, unless he gets beaten up all the time. I hope it's not that. Castiel thought that she was maybe unfair, and besides, it's not like she can be with anyone else anyways. Law doesn't allow it.

The law does, however, allow divorces for special circumstances. Things like spousal abuse, someone being arrested for life, other situations where that might happen. But getting divorced is rare. About as rare as your soulmate being related to you (it's happened). It sucks after that, Castiel has noticed. You don't have that special love in your life anymore. If you appeal to a court, you can even marry someone after that if all parties are agreeable.

Well, the ones not arrested or things like that.

Some of the more religious folks often speak against divorces and things, even in dire circumstances. Defeats the whole purpose of living without your soulmate, they say. Personally, he doesn't care what people decide to do with themselves. It doesn't affect him directly, so why should it matter? He prefers sitting apart from the crowd. He likes to see all that he can, see the different points of view. Being a part of it all gets confusing, and you can't see light from shadow. That's why he loves art so much. He can choose any angle he likes and go from there. Captures the memory forever. That's what he likes.

He passes some seniors talking about their summer projects. One did a really neat research paper about theories of tattoos and piercings. It doesn't make a lot of sense when you think about it that when one half gets a tattoo the only thing that happens to the other is some redness and a bit of pain as it heals, and if the other gets a piercing, it closes on the other partner but stays on the original. Castiel thought that was interesting. He'd like to read that.

The bell for class shrieks down the hall, surprising Castiel so much he stopped in the middle of the hallway. As opposed to the stereotypical high school settings, no one shoved him into a locker with a loud obnoxious laugh. Instead they broke around him, glaring in annoyance at the idiot freshman who was standing in the middle of the walkway. He stood there only for a moment before someone bumped into him and brought him back to Earth again. Unfortunately he had been holding his stuff in his arms, throwing the contents forward as he stumbled. His first thought was thanking it was only the first day, or he felt more important things would have been lost in the crowd of feet that an eraser.

Immediately, Castiel dropped to the ground, collecting the fallen items and shoving them into his bag. He'd been carrying most of his stuff because he didn't want his bag to be heavy. Why hadn't he just stuck everything in his bag? This would all be far less embarrassing if he'd done that. Now he'd be late to his first class. He counted through what he had, nodding and muttering under his breath to be sure he didn't leave anything off of his mental checklist. Except – where was his sketchbook? No, no, this can't happen. It's going to get damaged, someone's going to _steal_ it, some of his favorite stuff was in there where –

Something was thrust in his face. Castiel blinked in surprise and shot back, mouth open in preparation to speak. But then he looked up. Loose jeans, an old, soft looking t-shirt, leather jacket, and the greenest eyes he'd ever seen. He had a million freckles that decorated his face like the stars in the night sky. He was beautiful, and Castiel swore his heart skipped a beat. "Is this yours?" he asked. Castiel's eyes flicked to his hand, his sketchbook held out. That's what scared him, his sketchbook being thrust in his face. He blinked, shaking himself out of his stupor.

"Yeah," he said, taking it gratefully and doing a quick flick through to make sure it wasn't damaged. There wasn't even a foot print of it. "Thank you." He slipped it into his back with finality, zipping it closed and standing. He was a good few inches shorter than the kid, enough that he had to tilt up his head to look him in the eye.

He nodded and smiled. It was uneven, the left side quirked higher than the right. It sort of came off as a smirk, but his eyes shone in the way people do with genuine smiles. "I saw some of your stuff. You're pretty good, kid," he said.

Castiel's eyes widened. "You looked at my art?" he asked softly in surprise. No one saw inside his sketchbooks. Not even his brother.

"Yeah, man, they're really great," he laughed, sliding his hands into the pockets on his leather jacket. "You in art or something?" There was no indication he was in a rush. In fact, he looked like he had all the time in the world. His green eyes looked Castiel over, and he couldn't tell how he felt about what he saw.

He was wearing nothing special, just a blue sweater and some okay fitting jeans. His wild black hair was as tame as he could get it that morning, yet it still looked like he'd rolled out of bed with some pretty lady who'd forgotten her money. He couldn't find his contacts this morning either, so he was stuck with his glasses. Really, he just looked like a grade A nerd if you were being honest. "Maybe," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand nervously. He wasn't sure what else _to_ say.

"Maybe," he chuckled again, shaking his head with a grin. He looked away as if he couldn't believe no one else in the now empty hallway had heard. He didn't notice that Castiel tracked his tongue across his lips with his eyes, but he did notice the flush on his face as he met his eyes again. "I like you kid."

Castiel frowned. "I'm not a kid," he said in opposition. That was the second time he'd called him that, and honestly, this kid wasn't that much older than him.

"Aren't you a freshman?" he asked, looking him over once more as if his appearance could prove something.

"Aren't you?" he shot back. How very wrong he was, he found, as the person in front of him threw back his body in laughter. The sound filled the hallway and seemed to give the old school life. It definitely filled the two of them with it.

"Calling a senior a freshman, you're funny kid," he said as he recovered, wiping away invisible tears. He shook his head and began to walk away his shoulders still shaking with laughter. "Thanks for that. That's the most I've laughed in a while," he called, turning as he walked to wave farewell to him before ducking into a hallway.

The sad part was it seemed like it was true.

Castiel, being as paranoid as was, had stopped in his third period to look through his art and really make sure nothing was ruined. On one page he had attempted to draw a racing horse but found he couldn't get the lines right, so in the top left corner in bright red letters he had written "trash". Now there was more, scrawled in thin blue pen.

"Hey now, it's not that bad. I bet your pick up lines could use some work though." Under that was a number. That senior must have written it before giving him the book. Why? What possible reason could he want to give Castiel his number?

Before he could go on a wild adventure to find this senior and demand answers he probably wouldn't get, his lip flared. He gasped and frowned at the numbing pain, reaching up to touch his lip. It was bleeding. His lip had split and he knew what had happened. Apparently, his soulmate was not only sad, but angry. Castiel was sent to the nurse and given an icepack, even though it wasn't that bad. He had the sneaking suspension that his senior would have teased him – lightheartedly of course – for the injury.

Later that day, Balthazar – his brother – had been talking on about how he'd seen a fight that day, and that one kid only walked away with a few bruises and a split lip. He hadn't seen who they were, but it sounded very exciting.

Castiel was too shocked to answer.

That first day wasn't the first time Castiel was late to class. As school went on he'd seen that senior more and more – he later found out his name was Dean – and they'd wave, or Dean would come hang out with him at lunch, or they'd walk for a bit before parting for classes. He was his best friend.

After Dean graduated, he kind of fell apart. He was busy trying to support himself and his little brother by himself while being plagued by other thoughts. School was the one stable thing he had, and after he left it was just his car, his brother, and Castiel.

Over those three years, he never told Dean about any of his scars. He never went without long sleeves around him, and Dean never said a word. Truth be told he was always wearing long sleeves too. His father's jacket or flannel or something of the sort. He'd only seen him without sleeves once or twice, but that was early on in their friendship.

In this particular summer, school had ended a few weeks before. He hadn't seen much of Dean – he was spending all his time with Sam before he left for California to go to college. Sam was a year older than Castiel and managed to skip ahead a grade. He said he needed a head start for the summer courses and finding a house and a job. Normal adult nerd things, Dean liked to say.

It was late, Castiel was up working on a midnight inspiration at his desk. The sound of his phone ringing ripped through the silence, scaring poor Castiel so bad he shot a foot from his chair. When the initial heart attack faded, he caught the phone on the last ring. It was Dean. "Jesus Christ, Dean, you scared the shit out of me," he panted. He normally didn't cuss, but Dean just brought that out in him.

"Hey Cas," Dean whispered. He sounded different, hushed. Uneven.

"Dean, is everything okay?" he frowned, setting down his stylus and pushing up his glasses. He knew Dean would be upset when Sam left, but honestly he didn't expect it this soon.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine," he lied, blowing out a stream of air. Castiel heard the sound of a car drive past on the phone, the sound of tires running through the thin puddles of water from that morning's rain shower.

"Why are you outside? It's freezing," he chastised, standing to pull on shoes. If Dean was outside this late it was bound to end in disaster.

"I'm at the park. I need to see you," he said, breathless.

"Are you serious Dean? It's one in the morning!" he said loudly before remembering that unlike Dean he didn't live alone. Nevertheless his shoes were on at this point and he was looking for a thicker jacket.

"Come on Cas," he sang, a bit whiney. Castiel shook his head. He was going to regret this.

"Our place," he caved. "I'll be there in five."

"Great, see you then," Dean said gratefully before hanging up the phone.

Five minutes later, Castiel was at the park, wrapped in a hoodie and some gloves he'd come across in the mess of his room, muttering under his breath. "Stupid Dean. Stupid nickname. Stupid cold." He just wanted to be inside and finish that cute piece of fan art he'd been creating. But for some reason this bloody child had the ability to pull his strings and drag him along into his ridiculous _things_ for lack of a better word. Like when they broke into that arcade. Or when they snuck into a rated R movie for free. Or –

"Cas!" Dean called, bouncing slightly underneath the large oak tree that they announced was their official spot two and a half years ago.

Castiel couldn't help but laugh. "You look terrible! Why couldn't we meet somewhere warm?" he shouted as he walked over. Dean may have the ability to drag him from his comfortably toasty room and kick ass drawing tablet, but not even he could make him run without a valid reason.

"Thanks for the compliment, beautiful," he said sarcastically as he approached. "And everywhere warm is closed." He threw his favorite leather jacket at him with a smirk, comfortably wrapped in another and several layers of clothing.

"Why aren't you wearing this?" he asked, putting it over his zip up nevertheless. It was too big on him.

"I've got enough layers. Besides, I knew you wouldn't be smart enough to bring more than one," he said casually, although Castiel could tell he wasn't himself. He was tense and awkward. This wouldn't be a normal conversation.

"Dean?" He asked, stepping closer in concern. "What's wrong?"

The older man sighed and looked at his feet. "I'm fine Cas," he said softly, kicking at the ground. He didn't say anything more.

"Liar," Castiel said sternly, crossing his arms as he looked him over. Over the years it's become habit for them to do that to each other, as if whenever they did they could strip away whatever layer the other just couldn't seem to get past.

Dean cleared his throat and straightened, pulling something from the pocket of his jeans. It was a bunch of notebook paper, stapled together in one corner and folded neatly. "Here," he said, holding it out. Castiel looked at it for a long moment before slowly taking the paper, a sudden vision of his freshman year flooding his mind. He looked back up to Dean who only looked away. "Don't open it. Not yet."

The younger frowned, slipping it into his pocket obediently. "What is this? What's going on?" he demanded. He didn't like this. It was wrong. Something was dangerously wrong.

"I'm…I'm going away for a bit. It won't be for long, but I really need you to read that for me when you leave," he said like it was rehearsed.

"I don't like this. Where are you going? Why?" he asked, scared. His friend was in front of him, falling apart, and he didn't think he could fix it.

"Just trust me, okay? You don't have to worry about me," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was shutting down, closing himself off from Castiel.

"Dean –" Cas said, starting forward, but a pair of headlights tore through the space between the two men. They both looked as a horn went off. It was for Dean.

"I have to go, Cas," he whispered sadly. He looked back at the younger for a moment, then without hesitation stepped forward, pressing his lips hastily against Castiel's. Like always, he was too shocked to say or do anything in that moment.

And before he could recover, Dean was gone.

That night Castiel couldn't sleep. He'd paced his room, he'd cried, he'd called Dean several times but never got a response. Around dawn, he'd fallen onto the foot of his bed, sobbing into his hands. Dean's letter was at his feet, 6 pages long. A 6 page long apology. A 6 page long goodbye. Castiel didn't even know what had happened when he fell back against the sheets, the back of his skull dissolving into a pool of blood.


	2. Back

June, 1692. Boston, Massachusetts.

The Salem Witch Trials had torn across the state for the past 5 months now, and Castiel knew that everyone outside state limits was secretly glad they didn't live here. Although, if anyone dared mutter that simple truth under their breath they were sure to be dragged to Salem by the tail of a horse, dead before they could even be put to trial for witchcraft.

Castiel wanted nothing more to escape this bloody place. Not that he was a witch, mind you, it was the heavy dread and paranoia that hung heavy on his shoulders. One wrong move and he would be hanged for everyone to see. As a mortician, that was not how he wanted to die. Leaving wouldn't be as simple as it seemed anyways. His father was one of the best morticians in New England, so his leave of absence would be noticed before he even made it to the border. He'd never even gotten farther than the 4th grade, not that many did anyways. Once he'd learned to read and the basics of math, his father pulled him from the work bench and straight into the morgue, guiding him through the ways of the family business.

And without a good reason to leave there's a chance he'd be on trial too.

So Castiel sat, balancing the checkbook at the tall oak counter in the silence of the morgue. He'd have to get new ink soon. This one was starting to clump and separate. It smelled funny too. Castiel had only just set down his pen when a bell rang through the store.

He looked up in surprise – it was a handsome man, short blonde hair that was slicked back and blue eyes that shone with humor. His suit was sharp and smooth, his shoes a black with a deep, clear shine. As he walked forward, he smiled at Castiel, adjusting his left cufflink. "Hello, I would like to enlist the work of the great Williams, please," he said, leaning with his hands on the counter. He looked a bit older than Castiel and damn how his heart jumped.

"I-I'm a Williams. Castiel Williams, sir," he said, his face heating slightly with embarrassment. He extended his hand for the man to shake, which he took immediately, a firm grip as he looked him over.

"Aren't you a bit young to be a mortician?" he asked, slipping his hand away. He seemed to be flirting – or he was curious, anyways. Castiel thought he seemed like the rich type that flirted with everyone, girls falling at his feet and talking about him in corners of giggles as he walked down the street. That seemed to clear Castiel's head, clearing his throat.

"I'm 24," he breathed, taking the pot of ink and setting it on the shelf behind him, searching for a new one. "Is there something I can assist you with?"

There was a moment of silence as Castiel reached back into the shelf, finally grasping an unopened jar of ink.

"Yes, there is. There's a witch trial that shall commence tomorrow at sun up, and I've been requested to fetch a Williams for service," he said. Castiel shivered and looked at the man with wide eyes. A witch trial? And they were called for?

"Where is this trial?" he asked nervously, sitting back on the stool with a swallow. If the man noticed the quiver in his voice he didn't mention it.

"Salem. I must leave in two hours' time," he said, glancing at the tall clock that sat alone against the wall. "I will return then. We can discuss pay and the venture then." He smiled and winked at the speechless mortician, turning on his heel to leave.

He'd gotten as far as the door before it dawned on Castiel. "Sir? I'm afraid I never caught your name!" he called, trying to get his attention before he left.

The older man turned and smiled as if he was waiting for him to ask. "Balthazar," he said. "Balthazar Elliot." Then he nodded once, opened the door and escaped into the crowd of villagers.

Castiel hadn't realized he'd stood until he sat back, drinking into his mind what had happened, and just who this Mr. Elliot was.

As much as Mr. Elliot intrigued him, Castiel wasn't sure he wanted to go along with him. He didn't want to go watch a man die, then cut and bury him later. It just wasn't right.

But his father wanted him to go. Castiel needs the practice, and if all goes well, they could possibly do more practices like this – driving out instead of being stuck in their own radius.

So now Castiel was watching Raphael and his sister load up the carriage they'd be taking, leaning against the wall as he lost himself in thought. How could this ever run so smoothly? What if this soul was innocent? What of his soulmate? Even if this man wasn't a witch he would die, and if he was they'd track him down and kill him anyways. Or they'd all be killed themselves.

Did he mention he didn't want to go?

"Mr. Williams!" A voice shouted. Castiel looked up and saw Mr. Elliot walking to him, suitcase in hand. He was waving with his other and grinning wildly as he approached around the back of the building. He looked excited. "I was hoping it'd be you attending me in my venture," he said, handing his suitcase to Emily to put in the back with Castiel's.

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Elliot," he said with a small smile. The destination might be unbearable but maybe the journey won't be.

"Mr. Elliot is my father, dear boy!" he laughed. "Call me Balthazar."

Castiel shifted nervously. He didn't know how he felt about him pointing out the fact he was older. "Alright, Balthazar it is. Feel free to call me Castiel if you like," he said, looking at the man. Balthazar had that same humorous twinkle in his eye as he grinned at him.

"Shall we be off then?" he asked, extending his arm to the carriage.

"By all means." Castiel nodded and walked to the carriage, Balthazar close behind him. Raphael opened the door for them, bowing his head slightly in respect for his lighter skinned master. "Thank you, Raphael. This is Mr. Elliot, he will be attending this venture with us. Please see to him as you would to me," he introduced before stepping into the carriage.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Raphael," Balthazar said with a smile.

Raphael only nodded silently.

And with that, they had left. The journey to Salem was only 6 or so hours – they had to stop and eat and other things along the way – but it wasn't too bad. Balthazar and Castiel talked the whole way, laughing and trading stories. About an hour before they reached Salem, Castiel had managed to coax Balthazar out of his jacket to show him the scar he adorned on his bicep, a single line, like he'd been scratched by a swinging branch. He said he'd gotten if from his soulmate, because he could never remember getting it.

Truth be told, Castiel was a little sad that Balthazar had that scratch. He didn't have it. He only had the teeth marks on his right side from when his soulmate was bitten – by a dog, he imagined – and the lines around his wrists, as if he'd been bound. He'd once entertained the idea of his soul mate being a slave, but immediately dismissed it. He'd not only have far worse scars, but the idea was terrible. Besides, slaves didn't have soul mates.

Apparently, they had reached Salem earlier than expected. Early enough to catch a dinner and a show at the local theatre. Castiel and Balthazar had stumbled away from the play, arms wrapped around each other in support. Balthazar was laughing like Castiel had told the funniest joke he'd ever heard which only made Castiel giggle at the older man. They only had a little to drink. Well, Balthazar drank a whole pint by himself. Castiel only drank a little.

Because he was laughing so hard, Balthazar was incapable of giving him directions to his home. So instead (with the help of some bystanders) he trekked back to the hotel he was staying at and dumped Balthazar onto his bed, shaking his head at the older man.

Trusting the quieting man could be by himself for a few minutes, he left the room to search for a servant. Eventually he found one at the register, making his request to be awoken an hour before dawn and maybe a bottle of cabbage juice as well for his dear friend whose hangover will be dreadful morning come. He even left with a spare set of bedding since he assumed Balthazar would be staying with him.

Now Castiel had no idea what to do with himself. He'd returned to his room to a silent Balthazar and he'd made his bedding on the floor. He wasn't yet tired, and he didn't know Salem well enough to wander around. He supposed he could read the novel he'd brought with him just in case. "The Man in the Moone" by Francis Godwin. Although it was spelt queerly, it was still quite interesting.

Castiel opened his suitcase on the small writing desk against the wall and looked through the materials for his nightwear. He hadn't even heard Balthazar awaken, jumping out of his skin at the feeling of hands on his hips. "Let me help you with that," he muttered in his ear before pressing his lips against it.

Castiel gasped and shivered. Despite being aware of his own attraction to the older man, he'd only known him since 9 that morning. "Mr. Elliot, are you coming onto me?" he whispered his hands raising from the suitcase. He didn't know what to do with them.

Balthazar – not hearing a rejection – slid his hands forward to the front of his hips and pulled him closer. He kissed down from his ear to his collarbone. "You seem to enjoy it," he chuckled at his reaction. Castiel had moved his head away slightly on impulse, exposing more of his skin as his eyes fluttered closed. True, Balthazar was not his soulmate. But then, there was no law against this.

With a soft sigh of pleasure, Castiel melted against him, rolling his head back against his shoulder. Balthazar took that as full acceptance, turning him around and pressing him against the table. His lips took Castiel's kissing him like it was air. Being inexperienced, he fell under his hands, moving against him, moving where directed. Balthazar took his time taking him apart, loving him with fire and passion and grace.

They were so exhausted they didn't have the time to dress themselves, Castiel falling asleep in the crook of Balthazar's arm.

He still didn't even know his age.

Castiel was woken up by a rapping at his door. With a groan, he stumbled out of his bed and yanked it open. The maid's face before him was a blistering red with wide brown eyes. "M-morning, sir," she squeaked, holding forth the tray with two cups of fresh cabbage juice. "E-enjoy your m-morning." She bowed quickly and scurried away, covering her face. Castiel held the tray confused, frowning after her. He shook his head with a sigh and turned back to the room, locking the door softly behind him.

He set the tray on the nightstand and rubbed his eyes, looking over to a sleeping Balthazar with a lazy smile. Then like an anvil, it hit him as to why the maid acted why she did.

He didn't have any pants.

He dropped on the edge of the bed with a groan, his face in his hands. He felt the bed move, then Balthazar's hand against his back, rubbing it softly. "What is it, angel?" he asked gently. Castiel could hear the small fear in his voice – did he think he regretted last night?

"I answered the door without any pants," he said, muffled into his hands. His ears and neck were tinted a bright red in embarrassment, raging in head as his lover laughed.

"Poor Castiel," he said, wrapping his arm around the younger's waist. "C'mere." He pulled him down to the bed and climbed on top of him, kissing him softly.

Castiel kissed back for a moment before pulling away. "We have to go soon," he said, laughing. Just then he thought of why they were here, what was going to happen, and the light in Castiel's eyes died. They were going to watch a man die.

Balthazar sighed and ran a hand through Castiel's hair. "You're right," he muttered sadly. He didn't want to go either, he realized. But it seemed neither of them had a choice in the matter. He kissed Castiel's forehead and moved off of him, rolling his neck before standing for the bed. "Did I leave my suitcase here?" he asked in confusion as he opened the black leather case.

Castiel sat up and yawned, stretching. "I think Raphael and the butler may have just taken both cases instead of just mine," he said, bending to pick up the stray garments Balthazar had torn off him last night. He smiled to himself softly as he folded and replaced them in his open suitcase, bringing out fresh clothes.

Balthazar looked back at him with a smile. "Reminiscing?" he chuckled, pulling on his trousers over his pants.

Castiel flushed, pulling on his pants and then his trousers. "Maybe," he said, looking over at him with a mix between a smile and a smirk.

They finished getting dressed and packed the room, folding the unused bedding on the foot of the bed. Raphael was waiting outside of the hotel patiently. At the sight of his master he rushed forward to take their bags, setting them in the compartment in the back. By the time they finished their slow walk to the carriage, Raphael had opened the door. Castiel stepped in, followed by Balthazar.

In truth, Castiel didn't know what to say. Now that they were out of the room and the haze of post-sex happiness, he felt a little awkward. The ride was silent, Castiel watching the town pass through the open window and Balthazar lost in thought, his gaze in the opposite direction.

"Just around the bend, sirs," called Raphael from the driver's bench. It was enough to jostle both men from their thoughts. They looked at each other for a moment before Castiel looked away. What was he to say? What was appropriate?

"Castiel," Balthazar started. The younger man looked up in surprise, his hard beating nervously. "I…I know it is unusual…especially for two men to…to…" He trailed off with a sigh. "If it would please you, despite my harm not coming to yours, I would like to continue our relationship after this venture. Make it more than love making as well," he rushed, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking up at the younger man.

His eyes widened in shock, blinking at the blonde man. Did he really just ask that? "Are you saying you wish to court me?" he whispered, his heart seizing. Despite the obvious gap in age, Castiel's lack in finding his soulmate led him to believe he'd never find them. Yet despite he and Balthazar's lack of connection, he still did find a way to be drawn to him.

"If that is what you wish," he said, "then yes." The carriage came to a sudden halt and Castiel still had yet to recover, much less breathe. Balthazar leaned forward and rubbed his knee. "Think about it. We don't make it back to Boston for a long while. You can give me your answer then, yes?" he said slowly. Castiel could only nod, finding that agreeable. Balthazar had to return for his own carriage, so they would travel back together. He could decide then, couldn't he? That gave him until at least noon.

He pulled back just in time for Raphael to open the door, his medical examiner bag in his other hand. "They're waiting for you, sir," he said. It was the first thing he'd said the whole trip.

Castiel emerged first, letting out a deep breath and straightening his jacket. He waited for Balthazar before making his way to the dock, Raphael a few paces behind with his bag. There was a man on his knees, stripped down to his under garments with a potato sack on his head. His arms were bound behind him with thick rope and his breathing was heavy. Two bigger men held him down firmly in the chance he ran away.

"This is him, then?" Castiel asked softly to the man who seemed to be in charge.

The man nodded, then turned to him. "I'm Edward Jones. I see you've already met out friend, Mr. Elliot."

Castiel took his hand and shook it firmly. "Castiel Williams, I'm here in my father's stead," he said. "And yes, Mr. Elliot has made great company."

Balthazar covered his snicker with a cough, holding up his hand to wave away Mr. Jones's concern and urging them forward in conversation.

Castiel dropped his hand and looked to the accused. "Why are we here then, exactly?" he asked curiously. He tended to avoid conversation about the trials. He found it inhumane and dreadful, especially at the thought of their soulmates. People just assumed that witches had no souls, and therefore, no soulmates, but what Castiel was afraid of was the innocent ones. What happened to their soulmates in their death?

"If he swims, he's a witch and shall be burned. If he sinks, then it is your job to save him or dispose of his body," he said, much to the sickening surprise of Castiel. "Whichever comes first."

Castiel opened his mouth, to object or yell he didn't know, but Balthazar's hand came to his shoulder and squeezed. He turned to him, the older man's face grim. He shook his head gently, sorrow and apology in his eyes. He saw the wrong in this too. There was no way they could change or save this man within the eyes of the men on the dock and the onlookers on the beach.

Mr. Jones walked to the kneeling man, ripping off the sack. He jolted, blinking rapidly to adjust to the sudden rush of light. He was beautiful. His skin was soft and sun kissed, showered in freckles. His eyes were filled with anger, like a storm of trees, billowing through each and every person attending. "Let me go!" he roared. His words hit him with such a force, he stepped back. Immediately, Balthazar step forward behind him reassuringly. Feeling him there was a comfort. Not a strong one, but a comfort nonetheless.

"Dean Harrison!" Mr. Jones said loudly so all could hear. "You are being tried for witchcraft! Prepare yourself!" That was the only warning he got before Dean's bonds were cut and he was thrown backwards into the lake. He was given no instruction, no rules.

It was a moment before Dean's head broke through the water. Splashing and calling for help, he disappeared again. It took Castiel a moment to realize he was drowning. He began to strip, demands and questions getting shouted out by the men on the dock and the large, accumulating crowd. That's when he stopped. His breath caught. His hand went to his throat and he coughed, water spilling over his lips. He began to gasp and cough, falling to his knees. He was drowning on dry land.

"That man! He's a witch! He's forcing that man to drown with him!" A shrill voice called from the crowd.

Balthazar shouted, falling to the deck and pulling Castiel into his lap. "Save him!" he yelled at the men. "Pull that man from the water and save him!"

Castiel's vision stared to darken, folding and spazzing against Balthazar.

His life faded with the splashes, his hand to his throat as the light faded from his blue, blue eyes. He never had to make the choice to be with Balthazar, for his soulmate drug his last breath to Poseidon, who only shook his head at his brother's vacuous creations.

Later in his life, Balthazar became the world's most famous witch hunter to rage the European territory until he accidently burned his soulmate at the stake 6 years later, causing the Salem Witch Trials to last much longer than originally recorded in our history.

As for Dean, he never liked water much after his life in 1692. He even showed signs of aquaphobia in some lives. Each reincarnation had different reasons, but all had the same underlying fear of the great vast blue of the water.


End file.
